


Mirror, Mirror

by QueenCamellia



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: F/M, lizzy needs to find her own path, she needs to define herself
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2018-03-29
Packaged: 2019-04-14 15:42:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14139204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenCamellia/pseuds/QueenCamellia
Summary: Elizabeth Midford’s journey of self discovery, narrated by a sassy Grey.[acquaintances to friends to lovers]





	Mirror, Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> Elizabeth Midford defines herself by the people around her. 
> 
> "Wife of the Queen's Watchdog" and "daughter of Alexis Midford" - sure, they work, but who is Elizabeth?
> 
> Post Victoria-era, beginning of the Edwardian era fic exploring Lizzy through Grey's eyes.

The toll of the church bells echoes across the town, signalling noontime. His silver locks flutter in the cool, autumn breeze, and his snow-white clothing stands out amongst the crowd clad in black. Casting a bored gaze at the funeral procession, Earl Charles Grey shoves his hands into his pockets unceremoniously and glances at his partner.

“I didn’t think Phantomhive would kick the bucket that quickly,” he admits, his coarse language earning disapproving look from some of the elderly funeral goers.

“He was playing with fire,” Phipps responds, staring at the casket with an inscrutable expression. They both fall silent for a moment, thinking of Phantomhive and his follies. Grey likes to think that he wouldn’t have gone down such a path, but he’s unable to deny the temptation of having a demon butler. Michaelis, to Grey’s annoyance, had been impeccable efficient. “We should go and express our condolences to his family.”

With Phantomhive dead and His Royal Highness Edward VII succeeding his mother, it feels like the end of an era. Grey clings to the familiarity of his ivory suit, but he knows that even _its_ comfort is fleeting. “You’re departing noontime tomorrow?” Grey asks for confirmation, striding past the crowd. He heads towards the Midford family to offer his condolences, Phipps right at his heels.

“About that…” Phipps trails off, then reaches into the front pocket of his suit. Offering Grey a piece of cloth, he says, “I’d rather you not see me off.”

Grey nearly halts in his tracks completely. “Pardon me, _Phipps,_ but did you just suggest to me to _not_ send off my partner of over eight years?” he asks, glowering at the other half of Double Charles. Phipps’s comment _stings._

Grey tries not to let the hurt shine through in his features, but Phipps knows him far too well. Lashing out is one of the telltale signs of Grey’s genuine distress.

“It would feel too final of a farewell,” Phipps admits freely. His candidness, although usually welcomed, throws Grey off. _Grey_ is the one who is supposed to be blunt and unbearably clingy (although he’ll never admit to the latter: he has his _pride_ ).

Grey’s unsure of what to say, so he settles on: “You’re so _weird.”_

Phipps smiles at him, his expression appearing oddly bittersweet. “I’ll write, you know,” he says reassuringly.

“If you said otherwise, I would’ve skewered you,” Grey sniffs, turning away from his partner. He glances down at the proffered cloth and realizes it’s an embroidered handkerchief, undoubtedly hand-made by Phipps. The design is simple: Grey’s name in silver thread sewn beside two crossed swords. The design is nearly identical to the handkerchief Phipps carries in his left pocket. “Sap,” Grey says almost affectionately, unable to force the usual amount of derision in his voice as he glances at his partner.

Phipps’ lips twitch upwards.

They find the Midfords rather easily: amidst all of the black, their golden locks are easy to spot. Grey approaches the family and, to his amusement, sees Edward tense when he realizes whom Grey is approaching. “Lord Midford, Lady Midford,” Grey acknowledges, giving the nobles a sweeping bow. “My condolences for your family’s loss.”  
It’s the most generic phrase of sympathy he can possibly come up with, but it works. The marquess nods stiffly. “Thank you, Lord Grey.”

There. He has fulfilled his duties as Earl Grey, so now he—

Grey tilts his head and observes the Midford family again. Edward is silent, nodding at Grey in acknowledgement, but he’s not focusing on the earl any longer. Instead, the younger Midford’s gaze is focused on the figure standing silently beside him. Grey can’t help himself: silence has never suited the fiery warrior he remembers. “Midford,” he says, then clarifies: “Lady Elizabeth.”

It seems as if none of the other Midfords expected Grey to address her, for they all eye him strangely. Grey takes a moment to observe her. Elizabeth is no longer tiny, naive Lizzy Midford of fourteen: she’s Elizabeth Midford, the strong and fierce twenty-years old fencer. Grey realizes that she looks rather drab in black; pastels have always suited her complexion more.

It’s rather unfortunate that Phantomhive kicked the bucket a year before their wedding. _Or, perhaps it wasn’t an unlucky coincidence,_ Grey muses. Phantomhive always seemed abnormally obsessed with his _annoying_ butler.

“Earl Grey,” Elizabeth acknowledges, her eyes lifeless and gaze staring straight past him. Grey’s not used to being overlooked, which is probably why her expression irks him so much.

“I’ll be at the usual fencing hall beating up some plebes next Tuesday. Come if you want,” he informs her, scowling. He’s probably breaking all sorts of unspoken rules about proper funeral etiquette, but Grey has always ignored such niceties anyways. The rest of the Midford family is silent, watching their exchange with wary eyes.

Elizabeth blinks, reeling back. She studies him for a moment, and slowly, a spark ignites in her eyes. “We’ll see,” she says, her mouth curving upwards into a bittersweet smile. It’s the most life she has displayed thus far, though, so Grey will take what he can get.

“Good,” he says curtly, turning around to face the Midfords again. His lips curl upwards and he tilts his head at them politely, the picture of sophisticated grace. “By your leave.”

* * *

 

Phipps leaves on Tuesday. His departure is not marked with dreary skies or dramatic rainy evenings as the stories often go. In fact, the day is sunny and bright, a rarity for the usually rainy England. Grey nearly laughs as he stares out of the manor window, wondering if his former partner’s train has left yet.

Grey’s ivory suits, now relics of the past, seem to mock him.

He wants to burn them all, but somehow, he’s unable to.

Instead, Grey spends his day personally storing away his white suits, ignoring the servants’ offers to help.

* * *

 

Midford doesn’t come the first Tuesday. Grey shrugs it off, because even though he finds Elizabeth Midford interesting, she’s not an important facet to his life. But the next Tuesday— only _two weeks_ after the funeral— Elizabeth Midford enters the fencing hall, sabres in hands and an exhilarating fire in her eyes. The inferno blazing in those emerald orbs looks particularly striking because of her black mourning attire.

The fencing hall grows silent as everyone watches the girl of gold and emeralds unsheathe her blade and point it at his throat, not bothering to don any fencing gear. The pair of fencers stand still for a moment: silver and gold, black and white, fire and ice prepared to battle.

She breaks the silence first, voice trembling. _“En garde.”_

Grey tilts his head, smirks, and charges.

* * *

 

.

.

.

“Back again, Midford? Careful, now, someone might think you enjoy my company.”

“Quit talking and start _fighting,_ earl.”

“Testy, testy.”

.

.

.

“You know, if we’re going to see each other weekly, we should at least _try_ to make polite conversation.”

“I thought you didn’t care for niceties, earl.”

“I care for _entertainment,_ and just dueling you is getting boring.”

“You’re a terrible liar, you know.”

“So are you.”

.

.

.

“Ah, back again.”

“I like the color green more than blue.”

“...pardon?”

“I just wore blue often to match with...Ciel.”

“...”

“Stop looking at me as if I’m off the rocker: you _said_ you wanted me to make small talk.”

“A _hah,_ are you warming up to me, Midford?”

“Be quiet, earl.”

.

.

.

“I like gold better than silver.”

“...really?”

“But silver’s one of the Grey family’s crest colors, so nearly everything I own is silver. It gets awfully monotonous sometimes.”

“...ah.”

.

.

.

“Have you come here to lose again, Midford?”

“I seem to recall winning five to three last Tuesday?”

“...I was on an off day.”

“Whatever lets you sleep at night.”

.

.

.

“Pancakes are better than waffles.”

“I beg to differ.”

“You haven’t tried _Phipps’_ pancakes.”

“You haven’t tried _Edward’s_ waffles.”

“...point.”

.

.

.

“I hate Earl Grey’s tea.”

“...that’s rather counterintuitive.”

“It tastes like _shit._ Those Orientals are geniuses when it comes to tea, I swear. Jasmine tea is the best.”

“...I can’t say I disagree.”

.

.

.

“You know, it’s been _dreadfully_ boring lately.”

“Is that so?”

“Do you read?”

“Not particularly.”

“Certainly you don’t stay indoors and _sew_ all day.”

“...no, but I see no point in reading of people that don’t exist.”

“...Midford, when you come next week, you’d better be ready to spout Socrates to me. I _know_ you’re intelligent, dammit.”

“I never took you for the reading type.”

“I may be rather impulsive, but I’m not a _brute,_ Midford.”

“Careful with your words, earl.”

“You’ll _eat_ your words next week.”

.

.

.

“I have to thank you.”

“Ah, so you’ve finally discovered the joys of reading about _people that don’t exist?”_

“...Shakespeare is rather delightful.”

_“Ahh,_ the classic. I honestly expected better of you, Midford. Romeo and Juliet?”

_“Please._ Macbeth. There’s a quote I like, you know.”

“Hm?”

_“Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under't.”_

“Ah, the Elizabeth Midford manifesto.”

.

.

.

“We missed you at the Crawford ball, you know, Midford. The hosts were terribly offended when your brother told them you stayed home.”

“I see no point in such niceties.”

“Eh, they’re not _that_ bad. Well, it’s entertaining to watch the harlots try to proposition me, at the very least...and balls usually equate to free food, you know.”

“Is that all you think about?”

“Food, booze, and entertainment. What else do you need in life?”

“...”

“...what?”

“I’m just...well, you always seem _satisfied_ with yourself, earl.”

“...”

“...earl?”

“...you don’t know me, Midford. Don’t make any assumptions.”

.

.

.

“I have to apologize for my words last time.”

“...”

“You’re right: I don’t know you, and I should go around making assumptions. But...I’d like to try.”

“Midford…”

“...yes?”

“...are you propositioning me?”

_“No.”_

“Calm down, calm down! No need to skewer me. I was just checking.”

.

.

.

“You know, Midford, we’ve been dueling every week for the past two months. I think I deserve to be called something more familiar than _earl.”_

“Then...Earl Grey?”

“Just call me _Grey,_ dammit. Charles is a fucking _prissy_ name, by the way. Don’t use it. I’ll call you Liz.”

“...Liz?”

“What, you don’t like it? It’s confusing to call you Midford around your family, anyways.”

“...no. It’s...I...I do. I do like it.”

“Good.” _(You’ve grown out of “Lizzy,” anyways.)_

.

.

.

“You know, some call you dangerous.”

“I _am_ dangerous.”

“Not to me, Grey.”

“...no. Not to you.”

“Heh.”

“...I might be if you keep _smirking_ at me like that, Liz.”

.

.

.

“Do you know that satisfying feeling when you step on somebody’s smug face?”

“...I...regret to inform you that I don’t.”

“...alright, let’s go find some bastard to beat up. The feeling’s _exhilaratingly_ addictive.”

“Grey, we’re not going to beat up a civilian just so I can _step on his face.”_

“Why not?”

“...”

_“Ow!”_

.

.

.

“Watermelons are better than strawberries.”

“I beg to differ.”

_“Please,_ Liz. I’m a food connoisseur, and that includes fruit.”

“You know, when I initially met you, I would’ve never pinned you to be such a _glutton.”_

“It’s not _my_ fault most people can’t appreciate fine art.”

.

.

.

“Prince Soma invited me to a curry-tasting event, but I can’t attend. Would you like my ticket?”

“Wait, _seriously?_ You don’t mean the premium, quadrennial Diamond Curry Competition, do you?”

“...I’m not even surprised you know of it.”

“You are the _best_ fencing opponent I’ve ever had.”

“...should I feel offended that you only said that now?”

“Does it matter when you say it if it’s the truth?”

.

.

.

“Why aren’t you courting anyone?”

_“...what?”_

“I mean, it’s not as if you’re unattractive, Grey. And you certainly have plenty of women after you, being one of the few viable bachelors left.”

“If there’s one thing you’ll learn in life, it’s that romance is pointless. Why lose your senses for a little warmth when food’s ultimately more satisfying?”

“...I’m somehow not surprised by your logic.”

.

.

.

“Why don’t you like your given name?”

“...”

“Grey?”

“...I grew up with Phipps, you know. It was just... _easier_ to call us by our surnames. And Charles sounds like one of those stuffy old hypocritical geezers. Do you _know_ how many Charles there are around here?”

“About as many Elizabeths, I’d suppose. But _I’m_ fine with my name, even if you don’t use it.”

“...touche.”  
.

.

.

“I’m leaving for America.”

“...”

“...”

“...pardon me, I think I heard wrong. Did you just say you were going to _America?”_

“America. The New World. Land of new opportunities, yadda yadda.”

“What of your _duties?”_

“Double Charles has been retired for awhile anyways, and I can just leave the estate to one of my cousins to take care of for now. I figured a change of scenery was necessary. Beginning of the new century, beginning of a new life.”

“...a _change of scenery?”_

“Come now, Liz. It’s only for a couple of years. Three, at most.”

“You’re going to be gone for _three years?”_

“I’m exploring the world! Well, the New World, but who knows? Maybe I can take a ship elsewhere for awhile. I heard the Commonwealth of Australia was just established.”

_“Three years?”_

“Say, in three years time the next Olympics should be held over in St. Louis. You should go: I heard they allowed women to compete last year, although I don’t think they have women’s foil yet...hm, maybe you could just sign up as a male.”

_“Three years.”_

“Liz, you’re starting to sound like a parrot.”

“I can’t help it, my newest companion just informed me that he’s going off on a trip for _three years!”_

“...”

“...”

“...is this a bad time to mention that my departure is in three weeks?”

“...”

“...Liz. Liz! _LIZ! OI, DON’T LEAVE!”_

.

.

.

“You should see me off.”

“I’m afraid I have matters to attend to, that day.”

“More important than me?”

“Definitely.”

“Ah, that _hurts,_ Liz.”

“You’ll get over it.”

.

.

.

“Three years, Liz.”

“I’m aware.”

“I’m going to be gone for _three_ years, and you’re not going to see me off?”

“...”

“...come on, Liz.”

“We’ll see, now shall we?”

* * *

Grey inhales, the bitter cold wind carrying just the faintest hint of salt. He has long abandoned his suit of pristine white: Double Charles are no more, and Phipps has gone off into the merry unknown.

_(“I’ve been meaning to travel to the Middle East,”_ Phipps had told him, voice lined with both regret and ecstatic anticipation that Grey couldn’t bear himself to break. _“Their tapestries are beautiful.”)_

Grey had, after careful deliberation, chosen America as his new destination. America, land of new opportunities – and, hopefully, land without insanely powerful fucking _demons._ Grey’s still irritated when he remembers his dismissal of the Phantomhive butler’s rise from the dead. He could have caught them, then.

He is walking along the harbor, examining each ship with detached interest, when his eye catches on something _bright._

There, standing in front of the harbor with a contemplative expression, is the almost-widowed Elizabeth Midford. Grey blinks, then rubs his eyes to ensure he’s not seeing things. It _is_ Elizabeth Midford, her sunshine locks neatly dressed in a bun and emerald eyes gazing off into the unknown.

He’s been constantly haranguing her to come to the harbor and see him off, but he never thought that she would actually _come._

She’s wearing a rosewood-colored suit, and Grey nearly laughs at the irony of it all. He’s never seen her wear anything but dresses the rare times when Phantomhive brought her to a party. Not only that — with his dreary black attire, it looks as if _he_ is the one mourning Phantomhive. He wonders how much of her wardrobe choice is intentional: if she is finally letting go of Phantomhive, or if she is simply trying to fake recovery.

Although pretty frocks of pink and blue had fit her well, Grey finds that he likes this new look. It suits her.

His footsteps are swift as he approaches her: he prepares himself to call out her name. But when he draws close, he finds that he’s unable to speak, lost in the depths of her emerald green eyes.

It’s not he who speaks first: it’s _her_ , pivoting on her heel and meeting him with a small, hesitant smile. “Hello, Grey,” she says, eyes twinkling with something he can’t quite decipher. She lifts her suitcase and gives him a lopsided, somewhat sheepish smile. “Fancy yourself a travelling companion?”

He stands stock-still, unable to do anything but take in the sight of _her_ standing in front of the ship with her suitcase in hand and smile directed towards him. Grey takes a moment to remind himself to breathe, then remembers that he’s supposed to respond. Casually, he tilts his head and shifts his weight so he’s facing her more directly. “You think you can handle America, Liz?”

She gives him a lopsided smile, tucking a stray strand of golden hair behind her ear. There’s still a burden weighing on her shoulders, but when she strides towards him, there’s a skip in her step and spark in her emerald eyes. “I guess we’ll see, huh?” she says cheekily.

Grey _laughs,_ then extends his hand, eyes twinkling. “Your baggage, my lady?”

Liz — not Elizabeth, not Lizzy, not Midford, but resplendent and beautiful _Liz_ — adopts an affronted expression. “You can’t expect me to become a respectable twentieth-century, independent woman if I let a man carry my baggage for me, Grey.”

Grey’s lips quirk upwards. “Humor me.”

“I’ll have plenty of opportunities to do so in the coming weeks,” she dismisses, skipping on the gangplank. When she realizes he’s not following her, she turns around and raises an eyebrow. “Well, come on. The ship’s not going to wait for us, you know.”

Something about this situation is too surreal, yet Grey continues to cling to the hope that it _is_ real. He laughs again (he’s _always_ laughing around her) and steps onto the gangplank. “To new opportunities!”

“New adventures!” she adds cheerily.

“And new dreams,” he adds, watching her expression flicker for a moment. A small smile slides on her face.

“To new dreams,” she echoes affirmatively.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this post  
> http://rockyroadrei.tumblr.com/post/170498825749/aboard-the-ship-to-america  
> by the ever talented rockyroadrei :3
> 
> The rest of the story won't be "dialogue only," I swear. :)


End file.
